


Je T'aime Means...

by phantomhivemast3r



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomhivemast3r/pseuds/phantomhivemast3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Featuring a tailcoat, a bouquet, and a very nervous Brit. England has something he's been desperately wanting to tell France for years. But when he finally gathers up the courage to say it, the doubt slowly begins to creep in once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je T'aime Means...

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fanfic for my girlfriend's birthday a few years ago; it's actually based on a FrUk picture she found online, but the work stands alone without needing the picture to understand it! :3
> 
> *NOTE: French translations are at the end!*

**_Je T'aime_ Means... **

England frantically rummaged through his closet, trying to find the black tailcoat he saved for extra-special occasions. After a minute of fruitless searching, he let out a low growl of frustration; why was it that when he needed something, it was nowhere to be found?! He slammed the closet door shut, revealing the back of his closed bedroom door… on which was hanging the innocent-looking tailcoat. He glared at the offending garment for a moment, and then tugged it off the hanger and ran into the bathroom, grabbing his black pants and white undershirt along the way.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror as he pulled on the slacks and shirt, scrutinizing every bit of his reflection for any imperfections. He smoothed down his white undershirt, slipped on the tailcoat, and paused. He stared into his wide, emerald eyes reflected in the mirror, noticing the obvious uncertainty etched blatantly across his face.

_Do I really want to do this?_ he thought to himself, biting his lip. This was a huge, controversial thing he was about to attempt; not many Nations admitted what he was about to admit. Hell, not many Nations ever even _felt_ the way he did, let alone voice it, for fear of long-term consequences. This could pave the way for even more emotional, possibly even more violent conflicts in the future. Did he really want to take that risk?

England sank onto the cold, tiled floor, curling his legs up to his chest and putting his face in his hands. He had been debating about this choice of action for years and years. It had already caused him many months of agonizing stress just to decide whether he was sure about his feelings, and then it took an even _longer_ time to figure out whether he wanted to act on them or not. Finally, just when he thought he’d made up his mind, all the doubts and fears came crashing down around him once again.

“Ugh, that bloody Frog!” he said loudly, running a stressed hand through his short, golden hair. It was all _his_ fault- if it wasn’t for him, England wouldn’t be in this difficult situation in the first place.

“He’s so damn annoying!” the blonde ranted, glaring at the wall. “Always getting me into stressful situations… Always around when I don’t need him… Always there when I … when I _do…”_ He trailed off, gazing unseeingly at the ground, recalling all the history they shared together. It _did_ appear that no matter where England was, France was never too far off, whether they were fighting or not.

“Damn it.” England heaved a sigh; he couldn’t put this off any longer. It was now or never; if he didn’t make a move today, he might lose his nerve forever… And forever was a long time to wrestle with these intense, ever-increasing feelings.

Steeling himself for the task ahead, he slowly got to his feet and faced the mirror again.

“ _Tch!_ Great!” he tutted at the fresh wrinkles in his tailcoat, made from his time on the floor. He smoothed them out as best he could and did another once-over, frowning at his reflection; he could tell that he was missing something, yet he didn’t know what it was. He had on the slacks, the shirt, the tailcoat… The bowtie! How could he forget _that_ essential piece of his outfit?! Bowties were cool, after all.

He rushed out of the bathroom and snatched the bowtie off of his bed, before returning to the mirror. For some reason, now that his resolve had strengthened, he felt the need to get this over with as soon as possible. If he waited too long, he might have another breakdown from the anxiety, and it would probably be much worse than the previous ones... He fixed up the bowtie and glanced at his full reflection once again.

His outfit was spotless. Now, what to do about his hair… He grabbed the hairbrush off of his dresser and ran it through his golden locks, slicking them back in the front. He held them there with his hand for a moment, before making a disgusted face and shaking his head, returning to his normal, layered look. The Frog liked his hair messy, anyway.

_Much easier to run his fingers through…_

England blushed furiously at the thought, recalling the calming feeling of France’s hand lightly stroking his head. He quickly put the brush down and started fiddling with the many bottles of cologne on his dresser, trying to clear his head; he had to finish getting ready, and he didn’t need any more distractions.

Now, which scent to use? He picked up a light blue crystal bottle filled about two-thirds of the way with clear liquid. Popping off the lid, England took a whiff of the cologne, instantly bringing back the memory of the day it was given to him.

***

_“It reminds me of you, Angleterre,” France had said, handing the bottle to England._

_“It smells like roses and cinnamon…,” England said, scrunching up his nose at the intense smell. France smiled._

_“Exactly, mon petite chou- sweet, but with a little kick~!”_

_“Hmph!” England huffed, and France laughed. He turned away for a moment, distracted by something, and England surreptitiously slipped the cologne into his bag. However, France caught this movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced back at the Brit._

_“I’m glad you like it, Angleterre,” the Frenchman chuckled, winking._

_“S-Shut up!” England snapped, a slight blush coloring his thin cheeks._

_France merely smiled ever wider and blew him a kiss._

_***_

“Bloody git,” England said softly, the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. He blinked, coming back to the present, and glanced at the clock.

“Oh, hell!”  he exclaimed; he should have been out the door ten minutes ago! He would be cutting it a bit close, but he thought he could still make it if he had no more distractions. He quickly squirted a cloud of cologne around himself and then hurriedly put on a pair of shiny, black dress shoes. After a final, quick once-over in the mirror, he rushed out the door and hopped in his car.

Luckily for him, France happened to be staying in a quaint little townhouse about fifteen miles away. However, he was only there for a business trip, which meant that he actually had a schedule to follow. England hoped to catch him before he went out, because he knew that the Frenchman didn’t usually come home until very late.

Driving as fast as he could while still maintaining a legal speed, within five minutes the Brit managed to make it to a small Florist’s shop a few miles down the road. The bell on top of the door chimed loudly as he walked inside and up to the counter.

“’Morning!” the old man standing behind it said cheerfully, grinning. England smiled back and started rummaging around in his pockets, trying to locate his wallet.

“Hello, I’m here to pick up that bouquet I ordered yesterday,” the blonde Nation responded, pulling out his black wallet.

“Ah, yes, you wanted a dozen red roses, correct?” the shopkeeper asked as England placed his credit card on the countertop. The man smiled and opened the little fridge behind him, which was stocked full of colorful plants. He carefully grabbed a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses, all wrapped in white plastic and tied together with a flowing red ribbon.

“These to your liking, Sir?”

“They’re wonderful!” England nodded, smiling at the sight of the flowers. “I’m sure he’ll love them.”

“A special someone, I presume?” the shopkeeper questioned, a knowing twinkle in his eye as he handed England the roses and swiped his credit card through the register in one swift movement. England blushed.

“W-well, um…,” he trailed off. The old shopkeeper chuckled and handed his card back.

“I hope it all goes well, Sir,” he said, giving England an encouraging pat on the arm. The blonde nodded, slipped his credit card and wallet back into his pocket, gave the shopkeeper a final “thank you,” and headed out the door. He made sure the roses were safely secure in the back seat of his car, jumped in the driver’s side, and started the engine again.

After a fairly easy trip- only a few red lights to stop at-, England finally found himself pulling into the little gravel driveway in front of France’s house. He turned off the car, took a deep breath, grabbed the bouquet, and stepped out. He slowly walked up to the porch of the little white house, which was framed on both sides by two small windows, along with a plethora of lush green trees and bushes. He could tell why France had picked this dwelling; the Frog had always had a taste for very “homely” places.

England walked up to the front door and paused, a hint of doubt slowly creeping up his spine. It was now or never; he could either go through with this, or turn around and maybe never get the chance again.

Was he absolutely _certain_ he wanted to do this?  Going by past experience, their relationship had always been… rocky, at best. What he was about to tell the Frog might just cause even more of an upheaval…

But he would never know if he didn’t at least _try_.

Being cautious of the petals, he picked out a rose from the bouquet and placed it in front of the door. He gave the white wooden doorframe three short raps and then moved to the other side of the door, leaning back against the cool bricks of the house. He put one foot up against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves. He felt like an awkward teenager asking someone out on a date for the first time…

A slight smile turned up the corner of his mouth at the thought. Then, suddenly, the door creaked open and he let out a small, surprised gasp. Peering through the glass panels, England could see France gazing out from within the house, a confused look on his face.

He was wearing a white shirt with the topmost buttons undone, which was tucked into a pair of tan slacks being held up by a black belt. He pushed one side of his long, blonde hair behind his ear and smiled slightly, noticing the rose on the ground.

“Oh, _qu’est-ce que c’est_?” he questioned, stepping out of the doorway. He let the door close behind him as he reached down and picked up the flower. Bringing it up to his nose, he took a whiff of the lovely scent and turned around to find England standing there, holding a full bouquet in his hands.

“ _Angleterre!_ I didn't expect to see you here!” France exclaimed, smiling, walking up to him. England’s eyes widened, making him look like a deer in headlights, though he tried- unsuccessfully- to hide this as best he could. “Oh, and you're looking so handsome, too!”

“Um, y-yes, I just thought that I’d d-drop by and, um…,” the Brit stuttered, gazing everywhere but at the man in front of him. So much for keeping his nerves under control… France merely smiled at him, a questioning look in his deep blue eyes. After a moment of silence, England thrust the bouquet into his arms.

“H-here. These are for you,” he mumbled, staring hard at the ground as France took the flowers.

“Oh, how sweet!” the Frenchman remarked, cocking his head slightly. “And also very unexpected… What is this about, _mon cher?”_

“I-I just… I mean, I wanted to… _Damn it!”_ England cursed loudly, making France jump.

“Shh, _Angleterre_ , it’s alright!” France said soothingly, placing a comforting hand on England’s head. He had no idea what was making the Englishman so flustered; it wasn’t very often that he scrambled for words. The Brit _always_ seemed to have something to say- the trick was actually getting him to _shut up._ Whatever it was that he was here for, it must be very important.

England closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the reassuring pressure of France’s hand, gathering his thoughts together. This was it; this was the moment that could make or break the rest of their lives… but he was ready for it. He took a slow, deep breath and opened his emerald eyes, gazing into France’s deep blue ones.

“France, I came here today because… because I wanted to tell you… I…”

“ _Angleterre,_ I don't want to rush you, but I have a meeting to get to soon,” France cut him off, glancing from England to his watch and back worriedly. England narrowed his eyes.

“Couldn’t you spare just a _few_ more minutes of your _precious_ _time?!”_ England snapped; did the Frog not realize how difficult this was for him?! Honestly…

“I would _love_ to chat, _Angleterre_ , but I really must get ready…”

“Look, just hold on a moment-“

“But I need to-”

“I’m trying to tell you-”

“ _Mon cher,_ I’m sorry, but I have to-”

“I LOVE YOU, YOU BLOODY GIT!”

There was a sudden, deafening silence following England’s proclamation. The Brit quickly clapped a hand over his mouth and took a step back, a furious blush instantly coloring his cheeks. France was staring at him, his mouth agape. After a few agonizing seconds, a huge grin slowly spread across the Frenchman’s face.

“Oh, _mon petite chou,_ I _knew_ that you loved me!” he laughed, placing the roses on the ground. “I was just waiting for you to admit it!”

“You were _not!”_ England retorted, instantly aggravated and also still feeling a bit embarrassed. How _dare_ the Frog make it seem like his heartfelt confession wasn’t needed?! France merely winked at him. England huffed and crossed his arms in front of him, staring hard at the ground.

“You annoy the hell out of me, you’re always too close for comfort, and you’ll sleep with pretty much _anyone_ … and yet, for _some_ inexplicable reason… I can’t stay away from you,” he admitted sheepishly, uncrossing his arms and clasping his hands in front of him instead. “I just… every time I try to leave for good, I keep coming back! And for the longest time, I had no idea in hell why that was… until I finally realized that it was because I care about you too much to let you go.”

“Ah, I _knew_ you couldn’t resist _moi_ ,” France said, grinning and taking a step closer. England glanced behind him and noticed that he was uncomfortably sandwiched between the wall and France; a few more steps, and the Frog would be able to pin him with ease. Not that it hadn’t happened before- after all, this was _France_ he was dealing with-, but England didn’t want to feel anymore helpless at the moment. This confession had really shaken his usually sound nerves; at this point, the great and powerful United Kingdom could just barely stop his knees from knocking.

“Yes, well, that’s all I came to tell you,” he said, sliding out of the rapidly decreasing space and walking around the tall blonde, who followed him with his eyes. “I’ll be off now; you should probably be getting to your meeting-”

“The meeting can _wait_.” England felt a warm hand slip around his wrist. He stopped as he felt France close the distance between them, allowing the Frenchman to turn him around and pull him into a loose embrace. To England’s surprise, the Frog kept his grip extremely slack, as if allowing him one more chance to run, if he so desired.

_“Je t’aime, Angleterre,”_ the Frenchman murmured, pressing his lips to the top of England’s head and softly stroking his short hair with one hand. The Brit felt a shiver of happiness run through his body at those words; sure, France had said them many times before, but this time was different.

This time, he really _meant_ it.

“Stupid Frog,” England mumbled, wrapping his arms around the fellow Nation and burying his face in his chest. “You’re making me feel like a bloody school girl with a crush…”

“Oh, _Angleterre_ , you're so cute…,” France chuckled. England lifted his head to glare at the Frenchman; he hated being called “cute." He took a deep breath, ready to tell him off, when France suddenly tilted his chin up and gently pressed his soft lips to his own, instantly silencing him.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but England couldn’t ignore the small wave of pleasure that still tingled on his lips after the Nations moved apart. Any lingering doubts about their future instantly disappeared, along with any bad feelings towards the Frenchman.

Gazing into France’s blue eyes, he could see the depth of his love reflected right back at him. He smiled, and France lightly brushed the tips of his fingers over England’s cheek lovingly. The Brit sighed happily and rested the side of his face on France’s chest again.

Whatever the future might hold for them, be it petty fights or even full-scale wars, England knew that they would be all right in the end.

 The Frog was _his_ now…

And he didn’t intend to let him go anytime soon.

**Author's Note:**

> "Angleterre"= England  
> "Mon petit chou"= my little cabbage (a common French term of endearment)  
> "Qu’est-ce que c’est?"= What is this?  
> "Mon amour"= my love  
> "Mon cher"= my dear  
> "Je t'aime"= I love you


End file.
